


Fatigué

by kingdavidbowie



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, antisocial sleepy Will, first meeting AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingdavidbowie/pseuds/kingdavidbowie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're not going to get to sleep like that, you know," he hears, and peeks out from his arm fortress until he realizes that the stranger is addressing him. Will lifts his head enough to reveal his face, and stares. The man is a vampire, he decides. Or something. He looks too perfect to be in the same situation as Will. His tie is too straight, his shirt too unrumpled, his expression too calm. Inhuman. Definitely.</p><p>"I might," Will hears himself reply, and then yawn again. His eyes start to close again, and he forces them open, if only to gaze upon the thing sitting next to him. It's not often that one meets an immortal, blood-sucking humanoid. He'll take advantage of it while he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fatigué

Airport seats really ought to be more comfortable, Will decides. How often is it, anyway, that flights are delayed and passengers are given no option but to sleep in them? Hell, just sitting in the damn thing for so long is making him hurt. 

 It's about four a.m., by now.

It's been long enough that Will feels something close to acquainted with his fellow seatmates, even if he hasn't talked to any of them. He opens his eyes from another attempt at sleep and finds the elderly Hispanic woman wearing all black, and, a few chairs down, the man with the perfect posture and the suit vest. There's a person with red curly hair in his row, still asleep like they have been for the past two and a half hours. Or something. He envies them.

Will yawns again, his hand moving up to cover his mouth but it's too slow; it only makes it halfway there and then he's done. He drops his hand to his lap with a thud and sighs, staring out the wall of windows at the planes outside. Again. Nothing's changed--the weather is still shit, and he'd love it, actually, if he were home in it, stuck in a blizzard with snow piling up outside the door. Being so wonderfully alone. His dogs wouldn't be as into it, but that was alright.

As it is, anyway, the weather is shit, and he's stuck in an atrium full of other human beings. He sighs.

He watches with mild, weary interest from his position, head in arms on armrest, as the gentleman in the suit and tie stands. He moves as smoothly as he's been sitting in his chair, and there's not a hair out of place on his head. He doesn't look tired in the slightest, and Will might envy him, too, if he didn't just want sleep. He is covering his eyes, too, with his arms when he hears someone sitting in the previously unoccupied seat next to his.

"You're not going to get to sleep like that, you know," he hears, and peeks out from his arm fortress until he realizes that the stranger is addressing him. Will lifts his head enough to reveal his face, and stares. The man is a vampire, he decides. Or something. He looks too perfect to be in the same situation as Will. His tie is too straight, his shirt too unrumpled, his expression too calm. Inhuman. Definitely.

"I might," Will hears himself reply, and then yawn again. His eyes start to close again, and he forces them open, if only to gaze upon the thing sitting next to him. It's not often that one meets an immortal, blood-sucking humanoid. He'll take advantage of it while he can.

The man just looks, if anything, faintly amused. "You don't fall asleep easy even in your own bed, do you?" he observes, and Will smirks softly, just a little, at that. 

"I don't know if I even want to," he admits.

"Nightmares."

"--is too pleasant a word for it," Will finishes, and sits up in his seat, kind of, and pulls his shoes to the chair seat so that he can support his chin with his knees, instead. "I take it you're perfectly fine," he assumes, giving the man a look-over as if he hadn't already. Fitted pants, tawny hair with a perfect part, able-looking hands with immaculately-kept nails. No marks on him except for a freckle or two.

Yep, definitely not human.

The man's voice is a heavy European accent, one that drags down his English to a syntax low and almost garbled to Will's weary ears, and it only furthers his suspicions that the man is a vampire. His voice is too fuckable to properly exist, not via the normal, human channels.

Will stares at the man's hands until the stranger says, "I conducted a psychological study, once, on manners in which one might help one's self against having nightmares. One of the more successful ideas was to sleep with someone else."

Despite his tiredness, the words blurt out Will's lips anyway, in some surge of adrenaline or testosterone or--something. "That's--um. Interesting. For you," he says, and he's turning red, isn't he? He thinks of hiding his face in his knees but opts not to.

"I didn't mean sexually," the vampire replies with a small smile. His black eyes glitter in amusement.

"Damn," Will mutters, which only pops out because it's four-fucking-thirty in the morning. "I'm a lot more polite than this usually, I swear," he wants to say, but it's a total lie; he hates talking to people. He hates being caught in someone else's gaze. This man might be a bit of an exception, but not much of one in the long run. Will is antisocial. Aplatonic. Not into it.

Except maybe a little bit, with this one.

The man laughs quietly and goes, "May I?" so Will slurs "Sure" without paying much attention because he's tired, and whatever the hell the guy wants to do, it's fine by him. He wouldn't be much of a loss to the world, to his work, were he to get killed from vampiric blood loss.

He hears it's quite the sensual experience, anyway.

Then the man is holding Will, and all he can think is, yep, and here's where I die. A pleasant place to do it, anyway, in this man's arms. But no, he's being moved, adjusted, and he watches through bleary eyes and askew glasses as the stranger pulls up the armrest--the barrier between them--and pushes Will's head into his lap. He ends up lying fetally across his seat and the man's, his arms tucked to the side and his messy, dark curls tickling the man's legs.

When he looks up, the man's face is right there, and that's okay, that's okay, Will thinks, except he doesn't know how this will help the nightmares if he doesn't get to them in the first place because he doesn't know how much he's going to sleep when his heart is starting to pound like thuds in his chest, and even if he does, what if he gets sweat all over the man's dry-cleaned, freshly-pressed pants--

Fingers draw over his eyelids, effectively shutting them. "Relax," the man says softly, his hair just brushing Will's face as he leans down to whisper. Hands stroke down Will's arm, which is tantalizing at the very least but he's so damn tired, he's so sleepy, he just adjusts himself so that he's more comfortable and lets his body loose, relaxed. 

"Doctor," he guesses in a mumble, his eyes still closed.

"Something like that," the man answers, and Will nods slightly before dropping off to sleep.

He dreams of absolutely nothing, and wakes up somewhere between Minnesota and Virginia, in the same position in an airplane seat. He sits up groggily, understandably confused. 

The man just says softly, "Sleep, Will," so he does.

Here, he dreams of blood staining his vision crimson, and sex against trees, in his rickety old bed, in a boat on a lake. His heart beats faster not because of the latter, though. It's just that he realizes, some time while he sleeps, that the man knew his name.


End file.
